


One More Way to Like Red

by asahinayuuta



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 01:16:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3509741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asahinayuuta/pseuds/asahinayuuta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You usually don't care about others, but she is different, you seem to have taken an admiring to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Way to Like Red

You usually don’t care what others around you are doing, are saying, are thinking. Some call this cruel, others call it inconvenient. You call it practical. Why should you care about them? They have nothing reasonable to say, nothing really worth listening too. The annoyance of the stench gags at your throat and you know she is here, she being Fukawa Touko. Her presence lifts the smell of the clean lit candle to something that hasn’t been washed, someone who hasn’t washed themselves, for a while. She is watching you, in the library, surely reading and drinking coffee isn’t very entertaining to watch, but you know her eyes and thoughts aren’t on the coffee, nor, what you would first suspect, the book at hand. You wave your hand for her to go away, and she almost follows, until someone walks in, she pauses, and runs a nervous, frantic run. 

The same woman that has been in here for the past few days. You suppose you seem stalkerish. You were the one that barged in to the time she spends alone in the library, you don’t know why but it seems as if your body finds a way to be off routine, either you have to use the restroom, or your starved, or you forgot something. None of it seems reasonable though, you don’t typically care for what others tend to do. 

The woman is covered in the color of a card deck, painted perfectly from head to toe, her hair clearly fake, but even still, that fact cannot stop you. Her fair skin is that of a vampire’s. She has painted features near perfect, almost unreal, the look is pulled together with the finest of materials and with truly expensive shoes. It was clear that she was rich, no commoner could afford anything of that style. The lace decorates her figure in a well formed way, fitting her perfectly. A sharp, steel object that can surely injure someone greatly lies on her finger, placing a perfect defense mechanism in her hands, but why does she need one at school?

For the first time you notice the rude staring you’ve done, and flushed, you lift your gaze from the mysterious woman, to let it fall back onto your book. The hot air in the room must be getting to you… for the first time ever. You face is quite red and very hot at this point and you want to flee, kill the feeling, the source of it. 

Red was the color of things you had hated oh so dearly, the pure color of red wine when family had gotten drunk, the color of the roses that constantly fill your locker, the color of a heated face in deep embarrassment, the color of the nails and lipstick belonging to the girl you need a name from. The hatred for the color red sinks deep into the blue of your veins, the blue that could turn red come to the blood hitting the air, then causing the color you still hate, to pour from your body, in thick streams of true red. The color itself may present beauty, but you only see the reasoning as to hating it. Red. the color that paints your life in one picture. The color of the canvas. 

She searches for yet another book. It seems she has a knack for the supernatural section. Ghosts. Vampires. Zombies. Fae. Fairies. Werewolves. All of these things in the section, and maybe other things to do with dark arts and perhaps wizardry. Nothing pertaining to you, but you stay a constant intrigued.

Her red nail skims the books on the bookshelf, searching for the exact book. She finds it near the end of a row, next to an identical copy. The book is on vampires. You have read it before, when you were younger. It is very well written, almost as well worded as poems, but not quite. The book itself had not interested you, the author had, he was one of your favorites, and surprisingly, the book wasn’t so bad after all. 

She checks the book out and leaves. The air around almost tells you to go too, to see where she is going, to talk to her, ask her questions, get to know her, get her name. The hot air grasps you neck and you hesitate whether to walk out or not, soon her black and white laced dress is no longer in vision and you sit, but the almost tangible feeling grasping your neck just sits, still leaving you metaphorically fighting for air. You hate to think right now, so you go deeper into your book that you are still unsure of what chapter you are on. 

You are unsure what to do now. The new day may bring new chances, but you are uncertain. She isn’t normal. She isn’t like others. Her act is something you’d watch. Something you do watch. And you know is an act. You don’t know whether you’d like decode or kiss her, but it is one. Maybe both. 

. . . . .

You walk into the library to see her eyes swiftly meet yours, then return to the shelves of many books. This times, she explored the “romance” section, with an easy finger, and the you see several books piled on the floor, as if she had torn them off herself, and after seeing it done to more books, you know it was her who had done it. 

She picks up one and takes it to your seat. Her eyes sear holes into you although the are scanning the book. Then you realize they are not, she is looking at you, very carefully. You stand in front of her. No one speaks. Not you. Not her. Then finally, she does. 

“Um, may I be of any assistance to you?” she asks, her voice slicing the air, as if it wanted its own space, but when entering your ear, the noose becomes tighter. She overwhelms you, her voice sinking into your bones and burning bright holes. The elegance, the formality, the lie in front of you. “You can ‘assist’ me by leaving my chair”, I say back. She doesn’t say anything at first. She only laughs, a fake, weak laugh. That of one when you just got a question wrong and it is thought funny by someone much smarter than you. But it was quite feminine. 

“It mustn’t be much of a lucky day for you. I do not ‘assist’ people. My sincere apologies”, she says, so simply, fluently, formally. You are practically in love with her confidence. You had never thought one with such a sassy manner would be right for you, you had always thought it’d be easier with someone obedient, but she has proved you wrong. You are easily impressed by her, but you’re careful not to show it. 

 

“Oh, well can I get a name,at the least, you know, since I am not permitted a seat”, you say clearly, not allowing her to notice you don’t care she is sitting in your seat. “Curious are we? Celestia Ludenberg. French. Super High School Level Gambler”, odd. She doesn’t look her story. And her name is clearly fake. Gambling must be how she makes money, no “born rich” or “earned wealth” gambles unless it mean playing slots, and I think she means underground professional poker. “You are unlike many people. I have one question. What is your real name?” you ask.

She does her laugh, this time, holding up a hand to her mouth and setting her book down, prepared to speak with you. And suddenly, as she speaks, you are glad you had a “both” option on the earlier debate.


End file.
